CHAPTER XI

ONE O'CLOCK

Devar had the nimble wits of a fox, and the blood which raced in his

veins was volatile as quicksilver. The same glance which showed him

the gray automobile stealing softly across the network of car-lines of

one of the city's main thoroughfares revealed a roundsman crossing the

square.

"Friend Anatole may be heeled," he said. "Let's get help."

Leaning out, he shouted to Arthur, whose other name was Brodie:

"Pull in alongside the cop. I want to speak to him."

The chauffeur obeyed, and the policeman turned a questioning eye on the

car, thinking some idiot meant to run him down. Devar had the door

open in a second.

"Have you heard of the murder in 27th Street, outside the Central

Hotel?" he said, almost bewildering the man by his eager directness.

"Of course I have," came the answer, quickly enough.

"Well, the car mixed up in it is right ahead. There it is, making for

Fifth Avenue. Jump in! We'll explain as we go."

The roundsman needed no second invitation. Obviously, unless some

brainless young fool was trying to be humorous, there was no time to

spare for words. He sprang inside, and Devar cried to the surprised

chauffeur:

"Follow that gray auto. Don't kill anybody, but hit up the speed until

we are close behind it, and then I'll tell you what next to do."

Little recking what this order really meant, for its true inwardness

was hidden at the moment from the ken of those far better versed than

he in the tangle of events, Brodie changed gear and touched the

accelerator, and the machine whirred past Admiral Farragut's statue at

a pace which would have caused even doughty "Old Salamander" to blink

with astonishment.

While four pairs of eyes were watching the fast moving vehicle in

front, Curtis gave the policeman a brief resume of the night's doings

since he and Devar had gone with Steingall to the Police Headquarters.

There was no need to say much about the actual crime, because the man

had full details, with descriptions of the man-slayers, in his notebook.

He was a shrewd person, too. His name was McCulloch; his father had

emigrated from Belfast, and a man of such ancestry seldom takes

anything for granted.

"I suppose you are not quite certain, Mr. Curtis, that the chauffeur

driving that car ahead is the 'Anatole' concerned in the death of Mr.

Hunter?" he asked.

But Curtis was of a cautious temperament, too.

"No," he said, "that is more than I dare state, even if I had an

opportunity to look at him closely. As it is, I merely received what I

may term 'an impression' of him. That, together with the marked

similarity of the car to the one I saw outside the hotel, seems to

offer reasonable ground for inquiry at any rate."

"Did you notice the number of this car?"

"No, not exactly. I believe it differs from that which I undoubtedly

did see and put on record."

"Of course, the plate must have been changed or he would never venture

in this locality again. If you are right, sir, the fellow must possess

a mighty cool nerve, because he is just passing 27th Street, within a

few yards of the hotel."

Somehow, the fact had escaped Curtis's remembrance; excellent though

his topographical sense might be, he was still sufficient of a stranger

in New York not to appreciate the bearings of particular localities

with the prompt discrimination necessarily displayed by the policeman.

During the succeeding few seconds none of the occupants of the

limousine spoke. Devar was kneeling on one of the front seats, and the

roundsman, who had removed his uniform hat to avoid attracting notice

when a lamp shone directly into the interior, quietly took stock of the

men who had so unceremoniously called him off his tour of inspection.

Evidently he satisfied himself that he was not being dragged into a

wild-goose chase. Their tense manner could hardly have been assumed:

they were in desperate and deadly earnest; so he thanked the stars

which had brought him into active connection with an important crime,

and gave his mind strictly to the business in hand. Several knotty

points demanded careful if speedy decision. The chased automobile

might prove to be an innocent vehicle, driven by a chauffeur above

suspicion, and if its owner appeared in the guise of some highly

influential person he, the roundsman, might be called to sharp account

for exceeding his duty in making an arrest, or, if he stopped short of

that extreme course, in conducting an offensive inquiry.

Brodie took his instructions literally, and the distance between the

two cars was diminishing sensibly. It seemed, too, as though the

driver of the gray car slackened pace after passing 27th Street,

although Fifth Avenue was fairly clear of traffic, which, such as it

was, consisted mainly of motors going uptown--that is to say, in the

same direction as pursued and pursuer.

At 34th Street came a check. A cross-town street-car caused the gray

automobile to swerve rapidly in order to avoid a collision, and Brodie,

a methodical person of law-abiding instincts, lost nearly fifty yards

in allowing the streetcar to pass.

"Whoever he may be, he is not going to make any unnecessary stops,"

commented the roundsman, fully alive to the significance of the

incident, since ninety-nine drivers out of a hundred would have applied

the brake and allowed the heavy public conveyance to get out of the way.

"Unless the Hungarian assassins of New York are bang up-to-date in the

benzine part of their stock-in-trade, our car will make good in the

next two blocks," said Devar, over his shoulder.

And, indeed, it almost appeared that Brodie had heard what was said.

He bent forward slightly, touched a few taps with skilled fingers,

squared his shoulders, and set about the race with the air of a man who

thought it had lasted long enough.

Nearing 42nd Street, he had reduced the gap to little more than twice

the length of the car, and the three men saw the number plate clearly.

Not only did the number differ, but it was of another series.

"That's a New Jersey car," announced the policeman.

"It may be a New Jersey number," Curtis corrected him, "but I still

retain my belief that we are following the right man and the right car."

Just then no less than four cross-town electric cars loomed into sight,

and completely blocked the avenue at its intersection with 42nd Street.

The gray automobile had to pull up very quickly, and Brodie was

compelled to execute a neat half-turn to clear the rear wheels. In the

result, both cars halted side by side, but Curtis found himself just

short of a position whence he could obtain a second look at the

suspected man.

The policeman had bent low in his seat, lest his uniform should be

seen, but he, like his companions, gave a sharp glance into the

interior of the other car. It was empty.

He was seated on the near side, however, and he noticed that the lower

panel behind the door had been cleaned since the remainder of the

paint-work was touched, and the step bore signs of a recent washing.

Devar lowered one of the front sashes a couple of inches.

"Don't look round, Arthur," he said in a low tone, "and don't take any

notice of the chauffeur, but creep forward a foot or two, and then let

him go ahead again."

Brodie sat like a sphinx, and apparently did nothing, yet the car

moved. Sacrificing himself, Roundsman McCulloch fell back into his

corner, and left the window clear for Curtis.

"Well?" he inquired, and, surfeited though he might be with New York

sensations, the others were conscious of just a hint of excitement in

his voice.

"That is Anatole, I am nearly sure," said Curtis.

"Why not jump out and grab him now?" suggested Devar.

"Do you gentlemen mind following him for a time?" asked the policeman.

"No, I'm game for anything. And you, Curtis?"

"Oh, I feel ready to start the night all over again."

The street-cars went on, and the gray automobile darted through the

first possible opening.

"You see, it is this way," explained the official. "I am prepared to

arrest the man on Mr. Curtis's evidence, because I couldn't have better

testimony than that of the chief witness. But I've been chewing on

this thing for the past few minutes, and it strikes me that we gain

nothing by acting in a hurry. You may be sure that this fellow, even

if he is the person we want, will deny it, and a day or two may be lost

in proving his identity, or collecting facts which would support the

theory that he was the chauffeur connected with the crime. Now, if we

let him go on, we shall certainly have a better hold over him. We'll

find out his destination--perhaps secure a very useful address, or,

with real luck, discover that he is keeping a fixture with some other

individual."

"In a word, we must watch and pray," said Devar.

"Well, we can wait and see, anyhow," said the practical minded

McCulloch.

His counsel sounded good, and the others agreed with him, thereby

letting themselves and the patient Brodie in for some remarkable

developments in a pursuit which began by a simple coincidence and was

destined to end in a manner which none of them dreamed of.

Devar opened the window again.

"Arthur," he said, "did you happen to notice whether or not that fellow

is carrying a reflector?"

"Yes, sir. He has one. I saw him looking into it when I drew

alongside."

"Ah, that puts a different complexion on the affair, as the young man

said when he kissed his best girl and tasted Somebody's Beauty Powder.

Don't press, Arthur. Just keep him in sight till I consult the law."

As the outcome of a hurried discussion, Brodie received a fresh

mandate. During the straightaway run he was not to approach the gray

car nearer than sixty yards or thereabouts--in effect, remaining within

the same block if possible, but, if the gray car stopped in front of

any dwelling, he was to slacken speed and pass it, taking the middle of

the road, and holding himself in instant readiness to halt or turn as

directed.

"By the way, how are you fixed for petrol?" added Devar.

"I filled the tanks, sir, before leaving the garage. We're good for

the trip to Albany and back."

Brodie's tone was quite cheerful. He, too, had been reviewing the

situation, and the presence of a uniformed policeman had dispelled the

last shred of suspicion that some stupid joke had been worked off

outside the Police Headquarters when a fearsome looking tough was

introduced to him as the Chief of the New York Detective Bureau.

Devar was about to congratulate the roundsman on the prospect of an

all-night journey if Brodie's chance phrase were fated to come true,

when he glanced at Curtis, and elected to remain silent. They were

passing the Plaza Hotel, and his friend was peering up at its square

white bulk. Obviously, he was striving to locate Hermione's room.

Most probably he failed, for it is no easy matter to pick out the

windows of any particular set of rooms in a huge building while rushing

along at twenty-five or more miles an hour. Further, it was now past

one o'clock in the morning, and most respectable people were in bed, so

the solemn mass of the hotel was enlivened by very few rectangles of

light.

But Curtis fancied, as did Devar also, that the illuminated blinds of

three windows on the second floor might possibly be those of Suite F.,

and each wondered, if the surmise were correct, why her ladyship was

remaining up so late.

Devar resolved to say nothing, but Curtis felt that he must talk, if

only for the sake of hearing his own voice. Usually a man of taciturn

habit, the outcome of long vigils among an alien and often hostile race

in a semi-civilized land, he had gone through so much during the five

and a half hours which had unfolded their marvels since he quitted the

dining-room of the Central Hotel, that he ached for human sympathy,

even in a trivial matter of this sort.

"I thought I saw a light in my wife's rooms," he said.

"As you mention it, so did I," agreed Devar.

"I hope she is not awaiting my return?"

"Perhaps she is anxious about you?"

"But why?"

"Women are given that way. She knows you went out with Steingall, and

he is a dangerous character."

"Is Mrs. Curtis staying in the Plaza?" asked the puzzled McCulloch.

"Yes."

"But I thought you occupied a room at the Central Hotel in 27th Street?"

"I did, but I got married at half-past eight, and we went to the Plaza."

"Married at half-past eight--just after the murder!" The policeman's

words formed a crescendo of sheer surprise. For some indefinable

reason this curious conjunction of a crime and a wedding went beyond

his comprehension.

"Yes, it happened so. It might have been avoided, yet, looking back

now over the whole of the circumstances, it would appear that I have

followed a beaten track inevitable as death."

Of course, the roundsman could not grasp the somber thought underlying

Curtis's words, but a species of indeterminate suspicion prompted his

next question.

"You came from the Plaza with Mr. Steingall, I believe, sir?"

"Yes. We were having supper there, with Mr. Devar and my uncle and

aunt, when Mr. Clancy rang him up on the telephone, and he invited us

to accompany him to the Police Headquarters. The rest you know."

Certainly, the explanation sounded quite satisfactory. The attitude of

these two young men and their chauffeur was perfectly correct, and the

policeman's views had been strengthened materially by the tell-tale

tokens he had noted on the gray car, which, however, he had not thought

fit to mention. If Steingall had attended the supper in the Plaza he

must have convinced himself that there was nothing unusual, or, at any

rate, doubtful, about the queer fact that a man who was mixed up in a

remarkable murder should have gone straight from the scene of the

tragedy and got married.

Just to dispel a little of the mist that befogged his brain, he waited

a while and then said:

"Which side of the car was opposite the doorway when those two men

attacked Mr. Hunter?"

"The left. The car had entered the street from Broadway."

"Why do you ask?" inquired Devar, instantly alive to the queerness of

this alteration of topics.

"My mind went back to the job we have in hand," said the roundsman

readily. "I was wondering just what sort of glimpse Mr. Curtis

obtained of the chauffeur. Of course, I see now that he was looking at

the man exactly under similar conditions when we made that stop at 42nd

Street."

Thus, unknown to either of the parties to the alliance, a minor crisis

was averted, because it may safely be conceded that the hard-headed

policeman would have refused then and there to accept any sort of

statement from such a lunatic as John Delancy Curtis, if he were given

a full, true, and particular account of the night's proceedings while

being whirled up Fifth Avenue in a fast moving automobile.

Romance, if it is to be accepted without question, requires the setting

of a comfortable armchair or tree-shaded nook in a summer garden.

There, forgetting and forgotten by the world, man or maid may indeed be

carried far on the Magic Carpet of Tangu, but, when served out by two

strangers to a prosaic policeman seated in a humming car, and bound

Heaven knew whither long after midnight, it is apt to savor of the moon

and witchcraft.

Away up the straight vista of Fifth Avenue sped the two cars. On the

left lay the black solitude of Central Park, on the right the varied

architecture of New York's millionaire dwellings.

Devar and the policeman talked cheerfully enough, but Curtis was

wrapped in his own musings till the rear lamp of the gray car suddenly

curved to the left and vanished.

"He has turned into the Parkway at 110th Street," said McCulloch, and

Curtis awoke with a start to a sense of his surroundings.

"I suppose he's making for St. Nicholas Avenue," went on the roundsman.

"Why?" demanded Curtis, whose recollections of map-study would have

reminded him, in other conditions, that the avenue named by McCulloch

is one of the few which slant across the city's rectangles.

"Well, sir, it's only a guess, but St. Nicholas Avenue is a short cut

to Washington Heights, and cars often follow that route. Yes, there he

goes!"

For an instant they caught a fleeting glimpse of Lenox Avenue, which

runs parallel with Fifth, and then they were bowling along St. Nicholas

Avenue. After a half-mile or less, they crossed Eighth Avenue at an

acute angle, but the gray car kept steadily on, and soon was skirting

St. Nicholas Park.

Thenceforth another mile and a half counted as little until the flying

automobile gained the Harlem River Speedway. Here the pace improved.

There was practically no traffic to interfere with progress now, and

Brodie had to maintain an equable rate of forty miles an hour in order

to keep within sight of his quarry.

At last, by way of Nagle and Amsterdam Avenues, they regained Broadway

itself, at the point where its many sinuosities end at the bridges over

the Harlem River and Spuyten Creek.

By this time, McCulloch was undeniably anxious. Many a mile separated

him from the busy activities of Madison Square and its surroundings,

and the main roads of the State of New York were opening up their

possibilities. Still, he was of Scotch-Irish stock, and even the most

ardent Nationalist would be slow to maintain that the men from beyond

the Boyne are what is popularly and tersely described as "quitters."

"I'd be better pleased if I had any sort of notion where that joker was

heading for," he said, with a grim smile. "I didn't count on taking a

joy-ride at this hour of the morning."

That was his sole concession to outraged official decorum. He accepted

a cigar, and forthwith resigned himself to the exigencies of the chase,

which lay not with him but with the dark and devious purposes of the

sinister Anatole.

The end, however, was nearer than any of them was now inclined to

imagine. A rapid run along the main road through Yonkers brought them

to Hastings and the bank of the Hudson River. The comparatively level

grades of New York were replaced by hilly ground, and if they would

avoid courting observation beyond any doubt of error it was essential

that the gray car should be allowed greater latitude. In fact, it was

almost demonstrable that an alert criminal like the man they were

pursuing--if he really were the ally of Hunter's slayers--could hardly

have failed to realize much earlier that he was being followed.

Moreover, being an expert motorist, he would know that the car in the

rear could not only hold him in the race but close up with him whenever

its occupants were so minded. He would not be lulled into false

security by the present widening of the gap, because that was an

obvious maneuver due to altered circumstances. In a word, there was

now no hope or prospect of running him to earth at a rendezvous, but,

giving him credit for the possession and use of a criminal's brains, it

became an urgent matter to overtake him and compel a halt by

deliberately blocking the way.

They debated the point fully, and Devar was about to tell Brodie to act

when the gray car disappeared.

Not wishing to interfere at a critical moment, Devar drew back from the

window. Brodie spurted down a hill and along a short level lined with

suburban villas; he slowed to take a sharp corner, and the car ran

along a winding lane which could lead nowhere but to the water's edge.

It was pitch dark, and a mist from the Hudson filled the valley.

Common sense urged a careful pace, because it had never been possible

to stop and adjust the powerful headlights, while the luminous haze of

an occasional street lamp served only to reveal the narrowness of the

road and the presence of shacks and warehouses.

The descent was fairly steep, so Brodie shut off the engine, and the

big car crept on with a stealthy and noiseless rapidity which seemed to

betoken an actual sense of danger.

Suddenly they heard a loud splash, accompanied by a muffled explosion,

and McCulloch relieved his feelings by a few words, the use of which is

expressly forbidden by the police manual. But their purport was

ridiculously clear; the gray car had plunged into the Hudson, and who

could tell whether or not Anatole had gone with it? Curtis was the

first to adopt a definite line of reasoning: he assumed command now

with the confidence of one accustomed to be in tight places and to

depend on his own wits for extrication.

"Go forward slowly until the buildings stop, Brodie," he said, for the

two front windows were lowered, and the three men were crowded at them.

"That fellow knew exactly where he was going. When you pull up, light

the acetylene lamps, and we will take the other pair and search the

wharf from which that car was shot into the stream."

Within a few yards the brakes went on with a jerk, and a tall crane

loomed up vaguely in front. All four men sprang to the ground, and

while the chauffeur busied himself with the big lamps Curtis and Devar

disconnected the smaller ones.

They found themselves standing on a wooden quay, evidently used for the

trans-shipment of building materials, and a quick scrutiny showed that

the lane supplied the only practicable means of egress. Some gaunt

sheds blocked one end of the wharf and piles of dressed stone cumbered

the other. The tiny wavelets of the river murmured and gurgled amid

the heavy piles which shored up the landing-place, and Devar's sharp

eyes soon detected a corner of the gray-colored limousine round which a

ripple had formed. In all probability the heated cylinders had burst

when the water rushed in, and the explosion had tilted the chassis,

else the river, necessarily deep by the side of the quay, would have

concealed the wreckage completely.

From out of the mist came a white glare. Brodie had set the lamps

going, and now the square section of the submerged car became

distinctly visible. A little to one side a barge was moored, and the

policeman, who had produced a serviceable looking revolver, determined

to search it.

A plank spanned the foot or so of interstice between the quay and the

rough deck, and, in the flurry of the moment, the three men crossed

without warning the chauffeur as to their movements. The squat craft

had an open well amidships, but there were two covered-in ends, and

McCulloch, taking one of the lamps, peered down into the nearest

hatchway.

"If anyone is below there, speak," he said, "or I give you warning that

I shall shoot at sight."

There was no answer; he knelt down, lowered the lamp, and peered inside.

"Empty!" he announced. "Now for the other one."

He repeated the same tactics, but the cavity revealed no lurking form

within. Naturally, his companions were absorbed in McCulloch's

actions, because they knew that any instant a blinding sheet of flame

might leap out of the darkness and a bullet send him prostrate and

writhing. Of the three, Curtis was most inured to an environment that

was unusual and weird, and he it was who first noticed that the barge

was altering its position with regard to the white discs of light which

the lamps of the automobile formed in the mist, and a splash caused by

the falling plank confirmed his frenzied doubt.

One glance showed what had happened. Already they were ten or twelve

feet from the quay, which stood fully two feet above the deck of the

barge. Even while the fantastic notion flashed through his mind, a

shoreward jump barely achievable by a first-rate athlete became a sheer

impossibility.

"Good Lord!" he cried, almost laughing with vexation. "The barge has

been cast off from her moorings!"

Devar and McCulloch greeted the discovery with appropriate remarks, but

the situation called for deeds rather than words. The cumbrous craft

was swinging gayly out into the stream, displaying a light-hearted

energy and ease of motion which would certainly not have been

forthcoming had it been the object of her unwilling crew to get her

under way.

The whereabouts of Brodie and the automobile were still vaguely

discernible by two fast converging luminous circles now some twenty

yards distant, and the fact was painfully borne in on them that in

another few seconds this landmark would be swallowed in a sea of mist

and swirling waters.

Curtis, accustomed to the vagaries of Chinese junks in the swift

currents of the Yang-tse-Kiang, adopted the only measures which

promised any degree of success. He ran to the helm, which had been

lashed on the starboard side to keep it from fouling any submerged

piles near the bank. Casting it loose, he put it hard a-port, and

shouted to the policeman and Devar to bring a couple of boards from the

floor of the well, and use them to sheer in the hulk to the bank.

The night was pitch dark, the mist fell on them like an impenetrable

veil, and the wooded heights which dominated both banks of the river

prevented any ray of light from coming to their assistance. Still,

they had two lamps, which at least enabled them to see each other, and

Curtis could judge with reasonable accuracy of the direction they were

taking by the set of the stream. They seemed to have been toiling a

weary time before the helmsman fancied he could see something looming

out of the void. He believed that, however slowly, they were surely

forging inshore again, and was about to ask Devar to abandon his

valiant efforts to convert a long plank into a paddle and go forward in

order to keep a lookout, when the barge crashed heavily into the stern

of a ship of some sort, and simultaneously bumped into a wharf. The

noise was terrific, coming so unexpectedly out of the silence, and

their argosy careened dangerously under some obstruction forward.

No orders were needed now. They scrambled ashore, abandoning one of

the lamps in their desperate hurry, and the policeman instantly

extinguished the light of the other by pressing the glass closely to

his breast when a rumble of curses heralded the coming on deck of two

men who had been aroused from sleep on board the vessel by the

thunderous onset of the colliding barge.